


white queen

by disagio



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: 1970 Chess Olympiad, Age Difference, Chess foreplay, Cold War, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I Tried, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28502133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disagio/pseuds/disagio
Summary: Vasily Borgov did not enjoy the Chess Olympiads at all.However, the 1970 Siegen edition would be different: for the first time in his life, he looked forward to it. Becauseshewould be there, leading the US delegation.Or, what happens under the board remains under the board.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 104





	white queen

**Author's Note:**

> Explicit content is not my strong suit, not by a long shot, but here I am.  
> It's all [V_a_l_y](https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_a_l_y/pseuds/V_a_l_y)'s fault, who encouraged me and cheered me on every step of the way. Thank you for pushing me out of my confort zone.  
>   
> This work was written for the [14th Italian P0rn Fest](https://www.landedifandom.net/pf14-main/). If you're Italian (or you've studied Italian) and you have an account on [Lande di fandom](https://www.landedifandom.net/), you can read it in the original language [here](https://www.landedifandom.net/pf14-main/comment-page-2/#comment-5119).  
>   
> I hope you enjoy this hot mess, and happy new year!

Vasily Borisovic Borgov did not enjoy the Chess Olympiads at all.

He never understood why FIDE forced them all to play a notoriously individual game in a _team_ : his destiny was tied to that of his three teammates, and together they formed the so far undefeated Soviet Union team. He found vaguely irritating that his compatriots could drag down his – sometimes immaculate – performance, especially Luchenko, who had never taken this kind of tournament seriously. He preferred to crack some jokes with other Grandmasters rather than study his board. Vasily had lost count of how many times they had to come back from a 0-1 because Lev had chattered with some old friend of his and afterwards didn’t have enough time to calculate every variant. In short, Borgov would love not to participate in the Olympiads, but the KGB wanted the Soviet Union to dominate completely the chess world and he could not escape the Kremlin’s wishes.

However, the 1970 Siegen edition would be different: for the first time in his life, Vasily Borisovic Borgov looked forward to it. Because _she_ would be there, leading the US delegation.

When Elizabeth Harmon entered the Siegerlandhalle tournament hall – elegant and lethal, as the white queen she seemed to personify with her dress of the same color – many turned in her direction. She waltzed in, head held high, murmuring something to a teammate, and sat down in front of him with the same poise of a tsarina. She calmly took her own pen from her purse, wrote down their data on the scoresheet, and centered all of her pieces in their squares. She didn’t even glance at him. Immediately, Vasily thought about the Moscow Invitational, two years prior, when Elizabeth had ignored his gaze following her, too mesmerized by the city.

“It is good to see you, Miss Harmon.” He had whispered, in his awful English that not even his ex-wife could help him improve. Only then, she looked up with those big brown eyes of hers, her crimson lips slightly parted due to the surprise of hearing him talking in her native language; she smiled, a pretty and gentle smile, holding out her hand. “The pleasure is all mine.” She replied, her voice steady.

Elizabeth expected him to shake it, as they had always done in every match, but Vasily decided to keep this small psychological war going: he stood up and pressed his lips on her knuckles. The photographers who crowded the small hall for the USSR-USA match would immortalize her astonishment, but not the slight blush that tinged her cheeks; that was such a shame, because it softened her thin face delightfully. The game started right after, no more time for small talk, and Borgov got the ball rolling with pawn to king 4.

The opening (an Open Sicilian, the young American’s favorite) went on without a hitch, but Elizabeth’s play wasn’t at its best, especially at the start of the middlegame; this offered him an irresistible opportunity to prepare an attack against her king, still on its starting square. Her stare betrayed the growing concern she felt and he could glimpse, in her doe eyes, pure fury: it was the same destructive wrath that the Greek poets of old sung about, the one that brought ancient civilizations to their knees, and it burned now in Elizabeth Harmon’s dark irises. She was looking at him as if she wanted to crush him with her own hands, the same clutching the piece to move. Vasily didn’t doubt it – one day she would, he was sure of it – but raised an eyebrow, taking up her silent challenge. Sure, he was a knight down, but her king was far too vulnerable, he just needed to…

Vasily Borisovic Borgov started at the feeling of something pressing between his legs.

Elizabeth smiled at his reaction and it took him a whole second to realize what was going on: a foot had wedged between his parted thighs and was softly feeling him; seeing how she was grinning, it was obviously Elizabeth’s, slipped out of the elegant shoe. The tablecloth was long enough to cover what was happening, and no one in the audience would ever lower their gaze from the game to notice that one of her shoes laid abandoned on the floor.

However, his movement caught the attention of Laev, sitting right next to him, who glanced at him puzzled; Borgov just shook his head and his teammate – after one last worried look – went back to his game with that American player dressed as a cowboy. Vasily swallowed when the pressure increased, never getting too excessive, and Elizabeth’s eyes were devouring him: they were so dark they seemed bottomless pits in which he could lose his soul, a mischievous glint making them shine as bright as stars. He was fascinated, bewitched by the fluttering of her long eyelashes, and their game didn’t exist anymore; there was nothing in the world except for her face, framed by the fiery waves of her hair, and her foot on his crotch, which was rapidly hardening. Yes, as shameful as it was, he was getting an erection: it was the wickedness of it all, her adversary turning him on under everybody’s nose, that really threatened to make him lose his control. Elizabeth Harmon tilted her head, a perfect eyebrow raised, putting on an innocent look while he was boiling in his dark suit. The idea of just overturn the table and take her right here and there was getting more and more appealing by the minute. And she knew it, she perfectly understood what was going on in his mind and in his pants, and she was smiling sweetly. Young and beautiful, she had a dainty visage that reminded him of the icons of angels that his grandmother treasured even after the revolution. But no, Liza was no angel, she was a deadly queen. A white queen staring him without any fear, sure of her superiority. A white queen…

The pressure disappeared suddenly and Borgov had to bite down on his lower lip not to whimper. The slight movement of Elizabeth’s hip meant that she had crossed her legs, interrupting that forbidden touch. 

And Vasily was holding the white queen, his piece, which was not the one he was supposed to move. To keep his offensive going, and hope to win being down material, he had to play queen rook to king 1. His attack would die now that he was forced to move the queen.

Elizabeth Harmon knew that and she was shamelessly grinning.

The game was now a foregone conclusion. Having lost the initiative, he had nothing to compensate for his missing knight, and Vasily Borisovic Borgov, the World Champion, had to resign once again. She had smiled, positively gloating, but her win didn’t accomplish much since the final result of the USSR-USA match was 2½ to 1½: the Soviet Union still reigned supreme on the chessboard, but the KGB for sure wasn’t pleased by his huge blunder in the most important game of them all. Moreover, due to this loss, the prize for best score on board one went to Elizabeth Harmon, who graciously received a man’s suit from a very embarrassed Siegen mayor.

Once she left the stage, rejoining the US delegation, Borgov approached her. “Analysis” was the only word, in Russian, he said, ignoring the glare of the cowboy who was standing next to her. Elizabeth put a hand on that guy’s shoulder to calm him down, and acquiesced, following him in the deserted analysis room. There were still some chessboards, luckily, and Vasily locked the door behind them; he sat down in front of her and met her defiant stare: she had a magnificent poker face, sure, but the slight change in her posture betrayed the nervousness she felt. When they reached that position, Elizabeth moved his queen rook, staring him dead in the eyes. “Queen to queen bishop 6, check, is an inaccuracy; queen rook to king 1 would have been better…” She had the gall to say and Borgov snapped. He always thought of himself as a calm man, someone who didn’t break under the most stressful of situations, but Elizabeth Harmon was the only person in the world capable of shaking him to his very core. Natalya, his ex-wife, was right when she told him, in their last fight, that she didn’t recognize him anymore since he had started following the young American’s downward spiral: Elizabeth was the only one who could turn him upside down just with her intense stare.

Liza remained perfectly still, like a rock splashed by the ocean’s waves, when he kissed her.

Vasily cupped her head with his hands, trying to elicit any reaction from her with the movement of his lips, and when she finally opened her mouth to grant him access, his blood roared in his veins. At first, it was only a passionate kiss – love and hate are two sides of the same coin, after all – but as soon as she grasped his dark brown jacket, pulling it down his shoulder, he started exploring her lithe body: he rolled up her white viscose dress to touch her skin, something he was dying to do for ages. Liza bit his lower lip when he squeezed her breast, making him moan against her soft mouth, while she unfastened his belt. Still kissing her, Borgov cleared the board from all the pieces and then lifted her on the table; she spread her legs immediately and Vasily stepped in between them to grind his erection against her. Feeling her chase that blissful friction, her sex as hot as the inferno raging inside his chest, and the soft sounds of pleasure that spilled out of her mouth almost made him lose his mind: his world was just her, his Liza, the warmth of her smooth skin and the sweetness of her lips. There was no tournament, no teammates, no disappointed KGB, just her.

Imperious as always, she took off the flesh-colored tights and threw them somewhere in the room, seemingly unconcerned as him by what was waiting for them outside. Her pretty black lace underpants soon met the same fate and Vasily was mesmerized by the sight of her taking off the remaining clothes: it wasn’t a sensual striptease, on the contrary, her jerky movements showed that she was in the same hurry as he. When her bra too ended up on a chair close by, Borgov knelt in front of her gorgeous naked body, glorious and alabaster like ancient statues, and cupped her buttocks to bring her closer. Vasily would never forget how beautifully she moaned when he licked her clit, and he wanted to hear that sound again and again. At first, he didn’t remember exactly the proper technique – it had been years since he had slept with a woman, even before his marriage ended – but he just kept adapting to Liza’s reactions: he slowed down when she tried to wiggle out of his grasp, and accelerated when she huffed impatiently. He smiled when Liza squeezed his head between her thighs, her hands holding on to the edge of the table, and sped up the pace of his tongue: he wanted her to lose control; he wanted to have the same power she held over him.

Liza looked like she was about to hit him when he paused to catch his breath, but when he pushed two fingers inside of her she melted, head thrown back and lips slightly parted. In the soft sunset light, filtering through the window behind him, she looked like a goddess, Aphrodite herself. Vasily looked at her enraptured – trying to commit to memory how her chest raised and fell, and how she ground her hips against his hand – while he bended index and middle finger trying to find her G-spot, carefully studying her expressions: when he saw her biting her lower lip to stop herself from screaming, he took her clit in his mouth. That was what pushed her over the edge, and the orgasm left her shaking and flushed.

A few seconds later, after her breathing calmed down, she grabbed his shirt collar and yanked it to kiss him. Her slim fingers unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down enough to slip into his boxers. “No, Liza…” He gasped while her hand moved languidly on his cock. Her shining brown eyes bored into his, immediately finding the reason he was too ashamed to say aloud: he was too aroused to last long, if she were to keep this pace up he would come for sure. Not that he minded, being in this situation with _Elizabeth Harmon_ was so much more than he had ever dreamed of, but Liza let go right away and wrapped her long legs around his waist, pulling him against her. His pants, pulled down to the knees, hindered his movements, and Borgov stumbled and fell on her; her clear laugh reminded him of wind chimes and he beamed with delight, caressing her naked back.

Her laughter soon turned into a sigh when he slowly pushed into her.

Vasily had to resort to all of his willpower not to come on the spot, overcome by how incredibly hot and wet she was; Liza’s nails, sunk into his shirt, helped him maintain that last shred of self-control. He pressed his mouth on the elegant slope of her neck – a spot he had often dreamed of kissing, ever since 1967 – while he waited for his heart rate to slow down, breathing in her perfume: it was the same she had in Moscow, the one that enveloped him like a cloud when he had held her in his arms for the first time. He smirked at the thought of that chaste hug, diametrically opposed to this one, and started rocking slowly inside of her, to test her reaction; her moan, whispered in his ear, was the only answer he needed.

They hadn’t the time to luxuriate in each other’s bodies – as much as he wanted to, they were still in a semipublic space and the analysis excuse didn’t offer them much more time – so he set up a relentless pace, while he played with her clit with his right hand: he wanted her to climax again, and more egoistically, he wanted her to come on his cock. The obscene sound of his hips snapping against the soft flesh of her buttocks, the squeak of the table at each thrust, and her barely stifled gasps were making him lose his mind. He couldn’t resist biting down on her round shoulder, his self-control completely out of the window, and she pulled his hair in retaliation. Liza cupped his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks, and stared into his eyes. Her irises were almost pitch black, two abysses that the sunset light couldn’t lighten, but Vasily could see in them the same spark he had noticed during their game. The one he had observed in Moscow as well, when she had raised her eyes to the ceiling before crushing him with a line he didn’t thought of.

The fire of passion that burned in them both, for chess, sure, but now for something else that wasn’t that world of 64 squares.

Liza didn’t avert her eyes when she climaxed for the second time, mouth wide open in a silent scream, and the throbbing of her interior walls was the final straw: with the last shred of sanity left, he pulled out and came on her stomach, some drops reaching the valley between her breasts.

They remained silent and immobile for a few seconds, what they had just done slowly dawning on them. Elizabeth was the first to move; she sat up, her brows knitted, and the seminal fluid pooled in her navel. Borgov stared at that for a moment, light-headed, but his manners got the better of him: he picked up his jacket and offered her the handkerchief he always kept in his inside pocket; she took it gracefully, a soft smile curving her lips, and tried to clean herself while he gathered their clothing. They kept quite while they dressed up, and with each passing second Vasily felt worse and worse: he started considering that maybe, just maybe, what had happened was meaningless to her; he remembered the man who “visited” her in Moscow, the night of their adjournment, and he had read – in some stupid magazine he would never confess to have even glanced at – the “long list of lovers of the American queen”. Probably it was just speculation, fabrications in order to sell more copies, but the doubt remained. The dread he felt at the idea that Elizabeth Harmon would never look at him anymore, now that she got this out of her system, was slowly mounting and…

“Next time I’d prefer a bed, Vasya.”

The sound of her voice, calm and confident, distracted him. Liza was looking at him, running her fingers through her copper hair to give it a resemblance of order, still smiling. “Pardon?” he blurted out breathlessly, and it was not due to the tie he was trying to straighten; she took it into her own hands, retying it neatly, and this weirdly domestic scene left him speechless.

“As I was saying, next time I would like a nice, comfortable bed. I don’t particularly enjoy having sex on a shoddy Formica table, with plastic pieces poking me in the back,” she caressed his chest, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “But if you get turned on by analysis rooms, I’m sure we can find a compromise…”

Her comment made him laugh, and the _relief_ he saw on her face at his reaction made his heart clench. “No, Lizoshka, I’d prefer a bed too,” the endearment came natural to him, as it did brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, thumb stroking her cheekbone.

“Great! If you leave tomorrow afternoon, we still have some time in the morning,” she whispered kittenishly. “I think I can slip out my hotel unnoticed; I doubt anyone would bother me.”

“Your hotel is on the other side of town…”

“At least it’s _in_ town: I heard that the Argentinean players are staying in a pure field and they’re now planning on filing a complaint.”

Borgov laughed again and they soon lapsed into silence, although this time he wasn’t tense: he was content, they had said everything there was to say, there was no need for meaningless chatter. They set up the pieces they had thrown on the floor, calmly, and straightened each other clothes before walking to the door. With a hand on the door handle, Liza turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “I know I should apologize for the game, but I won’t. I quite enjoyed where we ended up.” She declared, without battering an eye, and exited without him. Vasily simply watched her go, confident and graceful, and smiled to himself: she was right, after all, he didn’t mind this defeat.

Vasily Borisovic Borgov hated to lose, as everybody else: his desire not to feel the burning rage caused by a defeat was one of the motivations that fuelled his will to become the best chess player in the world, and it had led to him winning the World title seven years ago, in 1963. However, losing to Elizabeth was a completely different story. Seeing her talent shining brighter than any star – including his own – didn’t leave him with a sour taste in his mouth, on the contrary, Borgov felt honored to bear witness to her rise. The red king – soon, but not quite yet – would be succeeded by a white queen and, if this was a taste of his abdication, he had to admit it was sweeter than any victory.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I did not invent the moves Beth and Borgov play. They're from a famous game ([Fischer vs Tal, Candidates Tournament 1959](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SByhM7j2A2M&t=451s)) where psychology had a big role in the outcome. But no, Mikhail Tal did not play footsie with Bobby.  
>   
> You can find me at empressofdisagio.tumblr.com where I shitpost about everything. Come and say hi!


End file.
